


breathe unto me a soul

by scyllas (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, and then requited love, awkward Orlesian teenagers, mentions of a dwarf Thomas Edison, the progression of Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/scyllas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Dorian dies on a night smothered by snow, too quiet for his rasping breaths.</i><br/><br/>In which Dorian Pavus is and <i>isn't</i>, and Thedas moves on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe unto me a soul

**Author's Note:**

> the very very wonderful [meyonezu](http://meyonezu.tumblr.com) / [cloveoil](http://cloveoil.tumblr.com) made a mix for this fic, which can be found [here!](http://8tracks.com/kaijumittons/breathe-unto-me-a-soul)

i.

Dorian dies on a night smothered by snow, too quiet for his rasping breaths.

“Hold on, Dorian,” says Cullen, holding his hand tight between both of his. His hands are cold, freezing to his fever-sensitive skin. “The healer will be here in the morning, _hold on_.” _They won’t,_ he wants to say. _The blizzard’s set in, you hope for too much, amatus._

Dorian struggles to keep his eyes open, but with each blink, his resolve weakens. He tries to remember when Cullen’s frown was not etched into his skin. He’s sure the memories are there, and it maddens him-- years and years of smiles and living together, yet none of them come to mind. There is only the Cullen of now, silver threading through gold hair and mouth setting into a worried grimace when he thinks Dorian is sleeping.

He coughs suddenly, heaving and gasping as all of the air in his chest is wrenched out of him. Cool fingers wipe away spittle and blood, and they tremble as they cup his cheek. He shuts his eyes, feels the rattle in his chest and knows it is too late. He is tired, so tired; he barely has enough energy to open his eyes once more.

“I love you,” whispers Cullen. His voice is hitched as if holding back a sob. “Stay with me, please, Dorian, _please_.”

He does not say _I’m trying_. He does not say _I love you_. He does not say all of the things that he had a lifetime to say, does not say all the things that Cullen already knows. He draws in a breath slowly, feels the shallowness of it.

“Goodbye” is what comes through his lips.

He closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

ii.

“You can’t hide like that, Jacques,” says Luc as he clambers up to his branch. It dips slightly under their weight. Leaves shift, dappling patterns of sunlight across a dark handsome face. “Your mother worries.”

“As if you aren’t hiding either,” he retorts, brushing back short, sweaty hair. The air is heavy and humid, the kind that precedes the most spectacular of lightning storms. “What, have the last of your suitors left for the day?”

Luc looks away. Jacques can see a faint blush creep up from under his shirt collar. “They’re not-- they’re not suitors,” he mumbles. “They’re just--”

“Suitors.”

“No, they’re--” Luc throws up his hands. “Fine, they’re suitors!”

“I knew it,” Jacques crows, swinging his leg over the branch so he could sidle closer. “They’re in it for your handsome face.”

Luc elbows him in the ribs. “They’re in it for the status, everybody knows.” He snorts. “In a town as small as this, I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“The town’s _quaint_ , Luc. Your family is the only one remotely related to any kind of nobility, even if that nobility is on the ass-end of Thedas.”

“Quaint.” Another snort. “Right. Quaint when the village crier knows what smallclothes you wear on Tuesdays or what you decided to put on your bread instead of jam this morning.”

Jacques shrugs. “We can’t _all_ be royalty. Use your popularity as you will.”

Luc’s foot nudges his own as he swings them back and forth. It’s easy, being together, like breathing. Nothing harried, no worries. There are no complications there. “And what would _you_ do, exactly?”

Jacques’ grin is slow like syrup, lazy and content. “Get some free ale at the Painted Den. Some of the fancy stuff, not the pissy stuff we get for cheap.”

“I wouldn’t mind something cold. Maker’s breath, it’s hot out today.” Luc pulls at his shirt. Black hair sticks to his neck.

“At least you don’t burn. Look at me, I’m a ghost!” Jacques tugs on the ends of his corn-colored hair, motions to his milky pale skin.

“Ghosts don’t _peel_ under the sun,” Luc explains gently, as if to a child. Jacques blinks before laughing.

“A joke? From you? Who are you, and what have you done to our dear commander?” It takes a second, perhaps two, for him to realize his mistake. He frowns slightly, tilts his head. _Commander._

“Commander?” Luc repeats. His tone is easy, but there’s unrest in his eyes. Jacques imagines that his own expression is mirrored.

He tries to laugh the feeling away. “Sorry, did I say something wrong? Is commander a pet name for you by one of your beloveds?”

Luc shakes his head rapidly, discomfort growing. “No, no, I-- it just sounded...I don’t know. Odd.”

Jacques nods slowly, looks away from Luc’s face to stare at his feet. They dangle five feet off the ground, fallen apples right beneath the branch. They’re summer harvesting; it was due time that he’d have to climb all the trees in the orchard to pick them off.

“Jacques.” Luc’s voice is unsteady. “Can you-- don’t say it. Anymore. Please.”

He can’t help but be relieved but something within him coils and bends, refusing to ease.

 

* * *

 

iii.

Elias sets his jaw as another recruit steps up. It’s always difficult, watching a Joining, waiting with bated breath as forces inside the recruit’s body warred.

But they need it. The Blight had taken too much, and the Wardens were running on simple desperation. Almost one-hundred years had passed since the last Blight, and they were lacking in everything: recruits, morale, hope.

This recruit is young, painfully so. A childish face framed with chin length brown hair, but when his eyes pass over him, he shivers. There is a force behind them, a determination that refuses to back down.

They’re familiar-- eerily so. He’s never seen the man, to be sure, but then why is that look so--

Elias shakes his head minutely, clears his thoughts, presses his nails to the palms of his hands until he’s convinced they’ve left a permanent mark.

The recruit falls - _fails_ \- and the feeling vanishes.

 

* * *

 

iv.

“It’s smart,” Marcus concedes, “striking during Satinalia, but also really _fucking_ reckless.” He raises an eyebrow as he leans onto the edge of the table. “It’s uncharacteristic of you.” The room is dark, except for a slant of moonlight through a small window.

“Ha! _Reckless_.” Avis rises from the bed, paces back and forth, bare feet making no sound as he crossed the kitchen floor. “A rebellion three years in the making, and you have the _spine_ to call me reckless?” Pointed ears twitch in irritation. Marcus resists flicking them.

“Many men have died without it.” Marcus scuffs a boot against the dirt floor. “It’s best you be careful.”

“I’d rather die in freedom than continue being a slave.” The word is said with a sneer, marring his delicate features. "The magisters are weak," he mutters, drumming his fingers on the table. "Years and years of complacency, magic turning into an ornament instead of a skill."

"I suppose I should be offended."

Avis spares him a glare. "I'm depending that they'll be drunk of their asses."

Marcus laughs. "They will be."

"You would know."

He shrugs. "No shame in admitting it. Or perhaps there is, I wouldn't know the first thing about shame."

"And the Archon—"

"Is mine, yes, yes, I know. It's the only thing you talk about when I'm here. Rush him off somewhere safe, stab him in the chest, watch the magisters flounder."

“Marcus.” He startles, looks up into black eyes. Avis sighs, drags a hand down his face, up through his argent hair. “You know I would never ask it of you if I didn’t think the situation so dire.”

Marcus nods. “I know.”

“I would never force your help.”

“I _know_.”

A pause, three beats of silence. Marcus searches hard for an answer he knows is not yet his to take. There is _something_ in Avis that makes him want to shy away, but yet, also bring him close and whisper comfort. He doesn’t like it; it feels wrong, an invasion that doesn't fit his mind. “I _trust_ you, despite everyone yelling at me not to.”

This stops Marcus short. He smiles, all sharp edges. “You trust _me_? Why, Avis, such a tryst! What will the others think? Ah, my heart cannot take such affection.”

He half expects Avis to roll his eyes, but there is only his steely glare.  “Trust does not mean affection. Betray me, and I will come for your blood.”

“Betray you?” His voice is soft, surprising them both. “Never.”

Avis looks into his eyes, and Marcus is entranced. The answer is there, he knows it, if he _just_ reaches up and--

Avis nods, looks away. “I believe you.”

“I would hope so. We’ve known each other long enough.”

“You lie to everyone."

“Never to you.”

“You are not my friend, Marcus.” He steps into the weak moonlight. Scars on bare arms are thrown into relief. “And you never will be in this lifetime."

"And in others?"

"I would not know."

Marcus finds unshakeable truth in his words, and laughs uneasily. “Getting sentimental, are we?” There’s a factor he’s missing, and it throws him off, leaving him irritable and without answers.

“I suppose we are.” Avis sighs, and there is resolve in his voice once more. “In two days time, we will bring Minrathous to its knees.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“You  drink to _everything_.”

 

* * *

 

v.

“You know fun, Felipe? It’s alright to have that sometimes.”

Felipe sighs, scribbles on his sheet of paper, bites down on his nails. He sticks his face close to the paper as if there’s a spot he can’t see. He wouldn’t be surprised; the man’s sight is horrible. “There’s too much work to be done. Camilla would be livid.”

“Fun,” drawls Tomas. “ _Fun_. Oh, come on now! The Divine calls a new age, and you sit here in the dark, writing away like some hermit!”

“I’m not-- I’m not a _hermit_!”

“With the way you dress sometimes, I’m surprised you’re not.” He crosses the room, takes Felipe’s hands in his. He glances up, dark brown eyes blinking rapidly as if Tomas was a sudden spectre. “You haven’t even seen the Street of Lights yet!” He tugs on them, waiting for Felipe to resign himself to be dragged around.

“Maker’s breath, _fine_! If Camilla kicks my ass later, I’m throwing you into the harbor.”

“She won’t notice a thing,” he reassures, pulling on Felipe’s arm insistently. “It’s worth an ass-kicking and then some, I promise.”

* * *

 

“Dwarves are _incredible_ ,” Felipe breathes. The whole street is strung with artificial suns, burning bright and steady against the night. His face is bathed in soft light, and Tomas wants to lean in and kiss him. His stomach flips. _Engagement, Tomas. He’s engaged_. “How--”

“Trade secret, apparently.” Tomas sniffs, looking away. “What a waste of knowledge, honestly. Show-offs.”

Felipe laughs loudly, brightly. He’s enamored by it, by Felipe, and somehow, he feels as if it isn’t the first time. “You’d do the same!”

“Yes,” he explains, “but it’s different when _I_ do it.”

“Of course it is.”

“Felipe!” cries out a voice, and Tomas takes a step away from Felipe.

“Andrea,” Felipe says with some surprise, holding his soon-to-be bride close before holding her out by arm’s length. “I thought you were visiting your family in Ferelden!”

She laughs, and Tomas hates himself a little for falling for the man. She’s as gorgeous as they come, auburn hair and curious green eyes. He likes her; there is no hatred in him, no hatred to Andrea. “I just couldn’t stay far from Antiva or you.”

 _It’s no wonder they’ve fallen for each other_ , he thinks as Felipe smiles down at her. _They fit together like gears._

When he slips away, he wonder if Felipe notices.

He misses Felipe searching for a head of fair hair in the crowd.

 

* * *

 

vi.

He’s a _mess_ , something he’s perfectly willing to admit to himself. Thrown out from his tenement and spending the last of his coin on cheap beer that tastes like he’s drinking from a latrine. His nose wrinkles, tosses down his payment. He’s sensitive to everything, from the small chatter of other bar patrons to the ongoing construction of skyscrapers outside, magic singing in his bones.

“You alright there?” says a gentle voice from behind him.

He thunks his head down on the bar, wood grain blurring in his closeness. “Yes, perfectly so, Maker’s side _tit_ , I’m fucking dandy.”

They laugh. “Lift your head, Dorian.”

He raises his head slowly, mind spinning, from the alcohol or the person’s words, he can’t tell. “Say that again.”

“Dorian.” Something in him _breaks_ , flooding and filling every crevice. _Dorian, Dorian, Dorian. Not Simon._ He looks at the speaker, hopes all he can that it’s _him._

It’s not, but theirs is a familiar face all the same. “Inquisitor,” he breathes.

They grin. “It’s good to see you.”

* * *

 

“You,” the Inquisitor accuses, “are an _incredibly_ hard man to find.”

“I fear my popularity hasn’t yet taken off.” Dorian frowns. “Why are you here? How are you-- you’re still _you._ ” He gestures to their face.

They pause, contemplating their drink before taking a big swig. Rivulets drip down their chin. “I haven’t died.”

“At all?”

“No.” They swallow hard, wiping away stray beer with the sleeve of their jacket. “I guess messing around with the Fade banned me from whatever life comes next.”

Dorian opens his mouth, tries to say _I’m sorry._ But the Inquisitor holds up a hand, smiles as if to reply _I know._

“But the more curious question is, why haven’t _you_ died?” _Permanently._

“As if I could deprive the world of my presence!” Dorian scoffs. He does not say that it was a question pressing to the forefront of his mind. He does not need to.

The Inquisitor grins before looking thoughtfully around the bar. Around them, people talked, argued, got drunk. He half-expects Krem to be standing on his chair in the corner. “It hurts,” the Inquisitor says, “not seeing them there. But that’s how it is, and how it will be.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been alone all this time.”

The Inquisitor shrugs, one shoulder lifting higher than the other. “I see Solas sometimes. Other than that, no.”

_I’m sorry._

_I know._

Another gulp of beer; they drink together, draining their glasses.

“He missed you dearly,” the Inquisitor says, words slurring together. Dorian doesn’t know if _he’s_ the one drunk off his ass, or if the Inquisitor is. “But you don’t need me to tell _you_ that.”

Dorian laughs. He can’t tell what makes it sound jagged and rough, only that it feels good to have it off his chest. “I suppose I don’t.”

“You know, this whole process stops. Being born again and forgetting.

“Does it?” He shakes his head. “I’ve lived five lives so far, it doesn’t seem to _want_ to stop for me. Ah, it’s fitting. The surrounding cosmos hate me.”

“It does stop,” the Inquisitor insists. “You are actually at fault here.”

“You’re blaming _me_?”

“Do you believe in souls, Dorian?” The question is abrupt, seemingly off-topic.

He tilts his head, searches for his answer. “I do.”

“Your soul is an finicky one, then.” He raises an eyebrow, but the Inquisitor barges on without stopping. “Your soul wants a happy ending-- in all of your lives, have you ever once had a completely satisfying life?”

“Yes.” It comes out like a question rather than a declaration. 

“A perfect ending? One that you’re content with?”

“No, but such a thing is impossible,” he argues. “A perfect life sounds like a Chantry myth.”

“Perhaps it is. But your soul wants to be happy, so it tries again and again, with new lives searching for it’s ‘perfect’ ending.” The Inquisitor pauses. “You’ve been keeping yourself away from what makes you happiest. I don’t have to spell _that_ out for you, do I?”

He presses his palms over his eyes until he can see spots dancing in the black. “I’m a fool, I know that, but it’s not that easy.”

“But it _can_ be.”

“And when I stop being born again, you’ll have no one.”

“I’ll have Solas, as dour as his company can be at times.”

“What if--” his voice hitches “--what if you’re wrong?”

A hand, calloused and familiar, brushes his cheek for a moment before drifting away. “If I am, I’ll buy you all the pissy beer you want.”

Dorian gives them a small smile. It’s the first genuine smile he’s had for a long time. It makes his head and heart hurt to think about it. “I think I’m rather good on beer right now. Will you stay?”

“As long as you need me to.”

“Good.”

He breathes in deep and feels his despair slip away inch by inch, hope taking stride and gripping him tight.

 

* * *

 

vii.

Dorian _remembers_ , in the passing of lives, in the span of a hundred years where he does not exist, he _remembers._

 

* * *

 

 

viii.

His family calls him Casper, and he supposes that it _is_ a lovely name. He decides to keep it, a second skin fitting over his many because he _is_ Casper. He _is_ Jacques, Elias, Marcus, Tomas, Simon.

He is Dorian. And he is all of his lives.

 

* * *

 

He sits in the park of New Qarinus, idling away in the summer heat, newspaper in hand.   _ **ARCHON SCREWING GOATS?**_ reads the headline. From the looks of it, Tevinter was about to enter _another_ political upheaval.

Some things never change, he supposes.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” He shakes his head without looking up, scanning the rest of the page. Assassinations here and there, but less so than the last time he was born there. He’s quite proud of the progress Tevinter has made, never mind that it’s taken close to four hundred years.

“Your hair is longer.” He startles, looks up. His bench-mate has a faint smile on his face, scar pulling up. “It looks-- it looks good on you.”

His hair is like newly mined copper, not gold. His face is as carefree as he has ever seen it; a frown would look misplaced. No stubble, his nose isn’t broken. Skin darker.

But the eyes-- the eyes are the same. Yellow, golden, sunshine and honey on a cold day.

“Hello,” Cullen smiles.

Dorian swallows, feels his soul sing loud. “Amatus.”

Cullen pulls him against his chest, familiar warmth uncomfortable under the sun’s heat but he never wants to move. “I missed you.”

“I’m here. _I’m here_.”

Cullen laughs, and the sound is glorious. Dorian drinks it in like he’s a dying man. “The Inquisitor told me that they no longer need to buy you ‘shitty alcohol.’”

His answering laugh is teary. “A shame, truly.” He kisses Cullen shakily, hands gripping too tight on his shirt. Cullen’s hands rest on his shoulders, squeezing tight.

“I love you,” says Cullen when they break apart. “Maker, I’ve loved you for so long.”

There are so many things that he could leave unsaid. But this future was his-- theirs. And though perfection was unattainable--

“I love you, too.”

\--he could come pretty damn close.

**Author's Note:**

> I am honestly really speechless right now because this _may_ be the longest one-shot I've ever written. Um. But hey, I hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it!
> 
> If you wanna talk cullrian, talk to me at [sinoyan!](http://sinoyan.tumblr.com)


End file.
